every day on the western horizon and the air grew chill with the onset of the coming winter. Low clouds gathered, blocking out the sun, but did little more than threaten rain, for which they were grateful. In a few weeks, the same clouds would gather over the mountains and bring snow to the high plains. Tarja hoped to be long back at the Citadel before that happened.
Garet had sent Tarja north to survey the villages close to the border for logistical reasons. He wanted a cavalry officer’s view of their ability to cope with the influx of Defenders that construction of fortifications on the border would entail. There also were the long-term effects of a permanent garrison to consider. Although horses could be grazed, a cavalry mount ate about twenty pounds of feed a day, which would have to be shipped to the border, along with everything else the garrison needed. Garet speculated that convenience, as much as trust, had kept the treaty with the Kariens alive so long. Having seen how inadequate the villages north of the Glass River were for the task, Tarja was inclined to agree with him.
The most vulnerable point on the border between Medalon and Karien was this high grassy plain, where the mountains ceased abruptly, exposing an open and undefended expanse of knee-high grass, which was rapidly browning as winter approached. Tarja and his small party reached the crumbling border keep, the only sign of human habitation on the plain, on the first day of Brigedda. He remembered the date as he rode at a trot toward the old keep, wondering who Brigedda had been. All the Medalonian months were named for the Founding Sisters, some of whom, like Param, who had wrested control of Medalon from the Harshini and established the Sisterhood’s government over Medalon, were quite famous. Others, like Brigedda, were remembered for no other reason than their names now marked the changing of the seasons.
He had not even realized this old keep was out here, until the innkeeper in Lilyvale had mentioned it to him. Curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he judged they had the time for a small detour. One look at the distant ruin was enough to convince him that strategically it was useless.
The keep was still some distance away when Tarja slowed his horse to a walk. Five small mounds of freshly turned dirt, topped with bunches of wilted wildflowers, were spaced at intervals beside the faint track that led to the keep. He stopped and dismounted, followed by Davydd Tailorson, the lieutenant Garet had assigned to him. He was a brown-haired, serious young man. Tarja had come to enjoy his quiet company. On the rare occasion he offered his opinion, it was usually an astute one. Davydd examined the mounds with a slight frown.
“Pagan graves,” he remarked, squatting down beside the closest mound.
“And too small to be adults,” Tarja agreed, glancing toward the abandoned keep.
“What do you suppose they’re doing way out here?”
“Better here than close to a town. Perhaps they thought no one would find them in such an isolated place.”
Davydd stood up and followed Tarja’s gaze toward the keep. “Or perhaps the keep isn’t abandoned?”
“Well, there’s one way to establish that for certain, isn’t there?”
Davydd nodded and remounted his horse. Tarja followed suit and waved to the four troopers who accompanied them to move out. The two officers rode side by side at a walk, making no gestures that could be construed as threatening – although if there were heathens hiding in the ruin, their uniforms would be threat enough.
“You know, it just occurred to me,” Davydd remarked, “that red coats against a background of brown grass make us an excellent target.”
Tarja glanced at Davydd and laughed. “I should introduce you to a certain Captain Gawn, currently stationed on our southern border. He has firsthand knowledge of the perils of brandishing one’s uniform against a brown background when there are enemy archers in the vicinity. But, I think in this case, we’re safe enough.”
“Unless the heathens in the keep are followers of Zegarnald.”
“If they followed Zegarnald, they’d be heading south. There isn’t much point in worshipping the God of War out here in the middle of nowhere, where there’s no one to fight.”
As they approached the keep, Tarja noted signs of human habitation. A small field had been cleared and planted along the western side of the ruin. Stones from the crumbling wall had been painstakingly dragged to form a rough enclosure that housed a thin milk cow and several unshorn sheep. The faint smell of burning dung reached his nose. On this treeless plain there would be no wood to burn. They rode past the wall and into the rubble-strewn courtyard, where a boiling copper sat unattended over an open fire. There was no sign of the inhabitants.
They stopped and waited for a while, to see if anyone would approach. The air was still. The smoldering dung stung Tarja’s nostrils.
He finally turned in his saddle and yelled: “Show yourselves!”
The keep was silent except for a slight breeze that stirred the dusty yard and the creaking of leather as the horses tossed their heads, as curious about this place as their riders.
“We mean you no harm!”
They waited in silence for a long moment until a figure appeared from behind the fallen wall of what had probably been the main hall. She was a thin woman of late middle years, dressed in rough peasant homespun, a toddler clutched at her hip. She eyed the soldiers warily, staying close to the wall.
“If you mean us no harm, then leave now,” she said, her cultured accent belying her rough clothing.
Tarja stayed on his horse, making no move toward her. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a boy, perhaps ten or twelve years old, hiding up on the decaying steps of the old tower to his left.
“It will be night soon, Mistress,” Tarja pointed out. “This is the only shelter for miles, and it looks like rain. Would you deny us what little comfort there is to be had on this barren plain?”
The woman took a step closer and glared at him. “You and your kind would deny me, quick enough. Do you really think I care if your men suffer a little, Captain?”
“But Kalianah, the Goddess of Love, says that all bounty should be shared,” Davydd answered, before Tarja could reply. He glanced at the younger man in surprise and then followed his gaze to the amulet hanging from a leather thong around the woman’s neck. It was an acorn tied together with several soft white feathers. The symbol of Kalianah. Tarja had seen some of Damin Wolfblade’s Raiders wearing the same amulet. The woman looked both startled and annoyed to have her own beliefs used against her by a Defender. “You speak the words, young man, but you have no idea of their true meaning. Leave us in peace. We harm nobody here.”
By now, Tarja had caught sight of another half dozen or more children hiding in the ruins. Was she alone out here, with all these children?
“We could insist, Mistress,” he warned.
The woman snorted at him contemptuously. “Have the Defenders fallen so low that they would attack women and children for the sake of a night out of the rain, Captain?” she asked, bending down to place the child on the ground. It looked up at the soldiers with wide eyes, sucking its thumb nervously. The woman walked across the yard and stood beside Tarja’s horse, looking up at him. “I had respect for the Defenders once, Captain, but no longer. Give me one reason why I should share anything with your kind?”
“You have no need to share anything, Mistress,” Tarja replied, meeting her accusing gaze. “We will share with you.”
The woman looked at him doubtfully. “You’re not ordinary Defenders, are you? Intelligence Corps is my guess. Nasty as the rest of them but marginally better educated. Well, we are finished here anyway, now that you’ve found us. If you mean what you say about sharing, then I’ll take whatever you can spare. I’ve seventeen motherless children to care for, and I’m not too proud to accept charity.”
Tarja dismounted carefully, anxious not to threaten the woman and her odd brood anymore than he already had. He was curious about these children. He had seen heathen cults aplenty across the length and breadth of Medalon but never anything that so closely resembled an orphanage. As they dismounted more children appeared, staring at the Defenders silently from the safety of the crumbling walls. To a child they were ragged and thin. None wore shoes, their feet bound with rags against the cold. It was more than likely they would not survive a winter here. Tarja called forward the trooper leading the packhorses and ordered him to leave them enough for their return journey and to give the rest to the woman. The trooper nodded and went about his task without question. That surprised Tarja a little. He was expecting some resistance. After all, feeding a bunch of starving heathens was hardly the patriotic thing to do.
“Where do all these children come from?” he asked as another trooper took his horse and Davydd’s to be unsaddled and watered.
The woman looked at him sharply, as if expecting the question to be the beginning of an interrogation. “Why
